I arrive first, check in. Dark paneled walls open into a large central space. Elevated platforms flank either end, steel ladders climb toward the beamed ceiling. A roped net cradles the entire space, bordered by a balcony for onlookers. I imagine a medieval theater, a galley of spectators, gaping at the show below. It reminds me of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, remade in London along the Thames, just meters from the original.
It is a show, after all, a novel experience. I see a group of girls taking turns, climbing the ladder, swinging on the suspended bar, hanging upside down by their knees, then letting go, trusting they will be caught by the professionals mirroring their trajectory. My friend appears at my side. We watch them in awe for a moment, then agree: they must’ve done this before.
Our turn. We line up with our fellow students, five of us inching into middle age: mommas and businesswomen, divorcees and professionals. On the wooden bench in front sit five preteen girls, emerging into adulthood, a Girl Scout troop on the rise.
They fit us with belts, like corsets. (“You wouldn’t want to slip out of it,” the instructor warns as she pulls the belt tighter.) I can’t breathe but I can’t tell if it’s the mental anxiety or the physical constriction causing my respiratory distress.
The women make nervous chatter as the girls listen attentively to the instructors. Why didn’t we just go wine tasting? We haven’t swung on monkey bars in decades. “Listen up!” One of the teachers admonishes us. They review how to hold onto the platform scaffolding with one hand and grip onto the trapeze bar with the other. We stand barefoot on a wooden beam a foot off the ground to simulate the platform. We learn to lean forward, bend our knees, take a leap at command.
“As soon as we say ‘hup,’ you jump.” I wonder why they don’t say “go” or “jump,” but “hup” does seem fitting somehow. It’s how I feel: a quick inspiration, like I’m about to dive underwater, like I’m sucking in to get that corset on, like I’ve just been frightened or surprised to an extent that breathing in and out in normal cadence is no longer possible. “Hup.”
She explains that really all we need to do is follow their commands. Do the right action at the right time and all’s well. “Hup!” We jump, we swing. “Knees up!” We pull our knees up and over the bar. “Hands down!” We let go, arch our back, squeeze our legs to the bar. “Hands up!” Grab the bar again, swing our legs back through. “Then you just tuck your knees when I tell you and you’ll naturally go into a backflip, landing in the net.” I think: natural and backflip are not two words I’ve ever used in the same sentence.
We shift nervously from side to side, glance up to the net, to the platforms above as she speaks. It seems unlikely that we’d accomplish all she suggests with the right timing, the correct cadence. “If you do everything at the right time, in accordance with our prompts, you’ll hear this sound.” She rings a cowbell attached to a large beam. The sound reverberates through the hall. My mouth is dry. “If you get a cowbell before the last half hour of class, then you can try for a catch with the instructor.” One of her colleagues, wearing a T-shirt and short leggings waves her hands at us amicably.
“Well, that’s it. Let’s get started.” We look at each other, confused, mouths still gaping from the prospect of “catch.” We’ve had about five minutes of training. They want us to just get up there and do that?
Thankfully, they’ve already assigned a lineup, with the Girl Scouts going first. I figure, we’ve given birth, we’ve survived medical school, we’ve cared for multiple tantruming toddlers; we can do this.
I thought the height would be the issue, looking down from above, the prospect of having to let go. But it’s not the height that gets me; it’s the performance, the need to listen, to follow directions, to do what she says – the expert – holding the rope far below, tethered to the belt that constricts, that saves.
I climb the ladder, sweaty palms, beating chest. I make small talk with the instructor on the platform who unhooks the carabiner attached to my belt from one rope and secures it to another. She hands me the bar. It is weathered, wrapped in white tape, frayed all around from gripping hands over months, maybe years.
“Lean forward.” She’s holding onto my belt from behind. I’m to grab the bar with my other hand, let go of the platform scaffolding. Trust. I hesitate, then follow the command. “Good, now belly forward.” I protrude more, the safety belt digs in.
“Okay, now bend your knees… Hup!” Knees bent, I hesitate. Can I do this, just jump? “Hup!” She says it again, into my right ear. I hear her. It doesn’t compute. Something doesn’t compute. I look down at my red toes, freshly pedicured on an outing with my seven year old daughter the day before.
“Hup!” This time I leap, free flying, not falling. I’m soaring forward, arcing across the air.
“Legs up!” I hear it from below but I’m already moving, too early. I jumped the gun, didn’t wait for the command. I did that at track meets sometimes in high school. Spiked shoes aligned just so in the starting blocks. At the ready, all set, then GO! Too fast, too jittery, I anticipated and missed.
In trapeze, anticipation is to your detriment. The timing off, the trajectory all wrong, I struggle to get my legs up and over. Finally I do, muscles burning. “Okay, hands off!” My hands loosen, then drop unceremoniously. I am a wet noodle. I am hanging, undone.
“Okay, grab the bar again. Legs down. When I tell you, you’re going to tuck your legs and you’ll backflip into the net.”
Still skeptical, I consider rebelling, like one of my predecessors. Just let go and fall straight down, as if into a river from a rope tree, feet first, nose plugged. But instead I follow directions this time, tuck in my knees and, wonder! I’m flipping! I fall back into the net with a smile on my face.
***
I’m one of only four to achieve the coveted cowbell, the last of the group to do so. One of the instructors quickly pulls me aside to go over the drill. All the same sequence, but after I let go of the bar with my hands I arch my back, thumbs out, hands shaped like an “L,” and look behind me, towards the instructor who is swinging from the other platform, ready to catch. When she says so, I straighten my legs and fly. No reaching for her, nothing left for me to do. All I need is to follow instructions, release from the bar when it’s time.
It sounds so simple, so elementary. And when I watch the girls before me do it, arms chalked up, faces eager, it is. As I climb the ladder, I sense eyes on me, I sense heart pounding, I sense performance, a desire to succeed.
My first attempt I fall. I don’t arch my back enough, I’m looking down, not behind me where I should. My left calf hits the bar on the way down. Instead of grasping me, the instructor’s hands splay open, empty and reaching. I fall into the net, disappointed.
“We have time for one more try each.” I rub my sore Achilles as I tumble off the net. I have to try. Just one more.
As I climb the ladder, I think: Is this stupid? What if I’m really injured? What if it’s my Achilles? I have a long-planned trip to Europe, leaving the end of the week. What if I need surgery? But I can’t let it go.
I empty my mind. Everyone is watching. I’m the last one. One of the Girl Scouts yells from the galley, “Go, Birthday Girl!” I let it all go. I listen. “Hup!”
And it’s seamless, the flying. “Knees up!” “Hands off!” “Legs off!” I don’t reach. I don’t worry. She catches me and I soar.